


these foolish things

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anderson is an awkward penguin, Anderson just wants to be loved, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, THE HOLMES-WATSON WEDDING, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:29:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8338168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: With a melodramatic sigh, Sherlock motions for Anderson to make his way over. At first, he blinks then does a quick scan of the room so as to see if Sherlock were making the gesture at someone else. Upon figuring it out, his face splits into a wide smile and he happily makes his way over."Be nice," John grits under his breath."I'm always nice," Sherlock mutters.John huffs in disagreement just as Anderson greets them, non alcoholic (out of respect for Harry's sobriety) wine glass in hand. "I hear congrats are in order."





	

"He's staring."

The crease between John's brows furrow. "Who?"

"The beady eyes, the unkempt hair, the dollop of doughnut jam on his left sleeve. It's wrinkled, indicating he's behind on laundry. He's twitchy, pointing toward a heightened state due to New Scotland Yards finest stale coffee. He's staring as he wants to congratulate us but doesn't feel comfortable doing so. It's a wonder he can even contain himself. See how his hands tremble, John."

A violin pours out notes of longing, of love. It's love personified, returning from the grave. Sherlock had written it himself, insisting that vocals were an unnecessary way of telling someone you want to dance with them long after you're both old and gray. Music, he'd said, is an open vein. 

John turns and follows Sherlock's gaze. He is staring at Anderson in a way that would make anyone feel stripped bare and exposed. He's picking apart what's left of the poor man much like a vulture pecks at the dead. 

"Cut him some slack, Sherlock. He's nervous."

 

Sherlock slips his hand into John's. His thumb brushes across a solid white gold band on his left ring finger. He'd personally saw to it that the inside was engraved with "Always you." Everything in his life was another stone along the path that led to John, always him. Ten minutes ago they'd exchanged a kiss in front of a gathering of loved ones and vowed life and death (though it feels insufficient, their union is _more_ ).

It had taken a full three minutes for Sherlock to come back to himself after the priest had announced "For the first time ever, Sherlock Holmes-Watson and John Watson. Husband and husband." He'd stood there, dumbfounded at the weight of that statement. 

Approximately one minute after recovery, he'd taken John's face in his palms and kissed him breathless.

 

The proud grooms, guests and wedding party have gathered in a reception hall decorated by Sherlock himself. He'd ran off at least five planners before going solo. Sprays of flowers boast color from every table. Heavy paper in cream with gold lettering marks each seat per guest: Molly, Lestrade (side by side). Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft. Anderson, Sally. Harry, Clara (beaming, both of them). Major James Sholto and his date; a short man with graying hair and warm brown eyes who can't peel his eyes away from his beloved. As well as a host of unfamiliar faces that make up John's life prior to Sherlock.

" _Him?_ **I'm** the one who had to survive the ceremony, correct the priest when he mispronounced your middle name, filet myself in front of everyone we know and-"

With his free hand, John places a finger on Sherlock's lips. 

"Not good?," Sherlock mumbles.

"A bit." 

Sherlock's mouth closes over the tip and gives it a gentle suck. Suddenly John can't focus. His mind immediately goes to Sherlock in nothing but a sheet, the curve of his thigh, the way he moves when he's naked. He wants to drag him into the bathroom, slam him against the door and lock it. Screw waiting until they get to their suite.

Sherlock really is a cock sometimes. Punishment for sticking up for Anderson, John supposes. They can't leave yet and it's torture. With some resistance on his part, he removes his finger and tries to ignore the obscene look in Sherlock's eye as he slowly scrapes his teeth against the skin. 

"Sherlock." John's voice comes out thick and rough. He clears his throat and tries again. Sherlock smirks. "Call him over."

Sherlock shoots a glare in Anderson's direction. "What good can possibly come of that?"

 

Across the room, Molly and Greg take to the dance floor. They sway together, never breaking eye contact. She has finally netted a guy who can love her like she deserves and from the looks of it, they couldn't be happier.

 

John's voice takes on Captain Watson mode, stern in a way that gives Sherlock chills. " _Sherlock_."

With a melodramatic sigh, Sherlock motions for Anderson to make his way over. At first, he blinks then does a quick scan of the room so as to see if Sherlock were making the gesture at someone else. Upon figuring it out, his face splits into a wide smile and he happily makes his way over.

"Be nice," John grits under his breath.

"I'm always nice," Sherlock mutters.

 

John huffs in disagreement just as Anderson greets them, non alcoholic (out of respect for Harry's sobriety) wine glass in hand. "I hear congrats are in order."

Before Sherlock can mumble "Obviously," John takes him by the hand and squeezes it hard. He attempts to free himself but only succeeds in John tugging him closer.

"You'd be correct in that assumption," he replies instead.

Anderson dwaddles and rocks back on his heels. He's pacing himself, deciding on the right words. In a show of feigned bravery and what remains of his pride, Anderson puffs out his chest. My god he looks like a penguin, is he even aware? John pinches the skin between Sherlock's thumb, causing him to wince. Point taken.

"I would like to...to apologize. I realize we're not on the best of terms," Anderson begins.

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to reign in a speech about the hazard of assumptions and arriving at a conclusion without sufficient data. Granted, the Reichenbach incident has long passed but the bitterness remains; much like a lemon seed lodged in ones tooth.

John nods.

Anderson stares at his shoes. Guilt. What a delicious emotion. What an incredible wedding gift; it's far superior to the antique kettle Mrs. Hudson purchased. Said affliction taunts from a pile of carefully wrapped gifts, halfway across the room.

"But, for what it's worth, I never intended for it to go that far. It was Sally...she was convinced that you were the culprit and we all got swept up in it. And...and I'm honored to be here. It was a beautiful ceremony and the wine, it tastes just like actual Merlot. Where, may I ask, did you purchase it?"

He is a walking travesty. A wall of never ending text mushing together and flinging itself in Sherlock's direction. He'd forgiven Anderson immediately after the great St Barts incident of 2012 but why spoil the fun? It's entertaining to watch him squirm like a worm on the end of a hook.

John raises his chin, honorably. He takes Anderson's rambling and accepts without hesitation. "Apology accepted. I'm not sure on the wine, Sherlock?"

Anderson smiles, accenting the crows nests gathering at each eye. He appears more friendly this way, open. If he were in immediate danger, Sherlock might actually make a move to spare his life.

"Eisberg."

It's Anderson's turn to nod.

Sherlock is in agony. He presses his thumb against John's trapezium, that is to say the back of his hand. If he were to clutch it hard enough, John would pull his hand back and rub it thus giving them a rightful exit.

He presses. Gentle pressure at first, John smiles.

Anderson blinks.

Harder. John flinches.

Apply pressure to the wound, push thumb against the skin. John extracts his hand, rubs it.

"John, you appear to be injured. You'll require medical care. Pardon us, Anderson."

John plays along and rubs the injury, shaking his head. "Lead the way. Again, thank you for coming."

An awkward smile plays across Anderson's face as he attempts to pick apart the situation. Likely he has caught on but questions his own conclusion. None the less, he raises a flute glass in their direction.

"Congratulations," he repeats.

Sherlock glances around, tags who is most likely to begin an unwanted conversation once they detach from Anderson. Targets: five. "John."

And just like that, they're free.

 

"Was that necessary?"

Sherlock takes John by the arm and tugs him toward a side door. "Vital."

Guests mingle and dance, completely oblivious to their hasty exit. The minute they step out the door, a sleek black vehicle is waiting.

"Sherlock. Where are we going? We've a building full of people, a pile of gifts and I'm fairly certain there would be speeches."

The car smoothly leads the way without instruction or directions. It's Mycroft's wedding gift; a get away car. For once in his life he has deduced his baby brother properly and provided an escape from the music, lights, _people._

"Its been taken care of."

Again, Mycroft. Sherlock makes a mental note to send him a basket of cakes or tarts. Perhaps a gift card to his favorite bakery; the one he sends Anthea to pick up a pie from weekly. As if he could hide that from Sherlock, laughable.

John sighs. "Your brother."

Sherlock smiles and laces their hands together. "Who else?"

"Where to?"

"Sussex."

John blinks, puzzled. " _Sussex?_ "

"Mmm, I've a cottage there. It has _bees_ ," he grins. The place had been a gift from one Janine Hawkins who'd been unable to attend the wedding. She'd once propositioned Sherlock only to find that he wasn't the kind of man she thought he was. Two months ago she'd RSVP'd politely, stating a meeting with Irene Adler. _The woman._ Another on the short list of women who'd taken interest in Sherlock, only to find that his type was short and stocky with two layers of jumpers, a scarf and a penchant for decay.

John settles into his seat with a content sigh. "Sounds lovely, _Mr. Holmes-Watson_."

Indeed. It's far from the prying eyes of the media, Anderson and the entire wedding party.

Sherlock beams and brushes his lips across John's knuckles on his left hand.

 

Sherlock Holmes-Watson and John H. Watson celebrate their union in a place buzzing with honey and an unexpected triple homicide - a tantalizing new case.


End file.
